Gone
by Amaryllis3121
Summary: What was Bruce thinking the night Rachael died?


_It occurred to me that in The Dark Knight, we never really saw what went on in Bruce Wayne's head after Rachael Dawes died. I thought I might have a shot at trying to figure out what he might have been thinking. I've never done a Batman fic before so please review, and be nice :)__._

_PS: I don't actually have The Dark Knight on DVD, but I saw it on TV recently and remembered enough to do this. That's why I didn't put in the conversation Bruce had with Alfred :)._

* * *

_She was gone._ The simple thought echoed through Bruce's mind. He turned over the coin in his hand, not really seeing it. Memories flashed through his mind too fast to acknowledge what they were, but he registered one face in all of them. Hers.

Something stirred to the surface. An old memory, long before he was Batman. He remembered her then- safe from the crime and danger he had placed her in the midst of. Angrily, he clenched his hand shut around the coin. Of course it was his fault.

Bruce was unsure of what to do with himself. He supposed he should go home, but then there was Dent. He was on his way to the hospital now. The least he could do was go and see him. He had his coin, after all.

Just as he was about to put the coin in his belt, something under the tarnish caught his eye. Of course… double-headed. That's how Dent could put his entire life down to chance- he didn't. He just made it seem that way.

Bruce had the sudden urge to fling the coin away, but instead he hung onto it, knowing that she was the last person who touched it, who held it. Knowing that she was thinking of Dent at the time. For the first time ever he wished he wasn't wearing gloves so he could touch the coin, but he couldn't risk it. Bruce Wayne had never been near the coin. Not that they'd have a reason to test it. He was being paranoid he knew. He always was.

Bruce closed his eyes. He wanted to forget. He wished it would go away- Dent, Gotham, the Joker… everything. Without realising it, he had put the coin away and was standing, supported by the metal frame beside him. He half-walked half-slid off the small mountain of rubble and onto firm ground. He looked over to where the fire still raged, firemen fighting to put it out. He walked slowly around, pacing, trying to block it out, to forget.

He hesitated. Should he forget? He knew from past experience that bottling things up only made them grow. It made them build inside and brought an endless and senseless guilt and rage. And the urge to kill…

_No!_ Bruce stopped in his tracks. He knew he had to face this. He was a different man now. He had to be. He wasn't the person he was- that Bruce was too weak. That Bruce was pre-Batman.

_Harvey,_ his head whispered, _go and see him._

Suddenly, Bruce knew that was what he had to do. That much was clear. They had both lost everything- they were the same. Within minutes he was at the hospital. He stormed into the building, all subtlety lost. Of course, Batman got some strange looks, but nobody stopped him. Bruce liked to think it was because they were too scared, but he couldn't help the niggling feeling that, impossible as it was, they all knew. Batman had failed.

He found Dent's room and stepped inside. Instantly he knew he had been wrong. He hadn't lost everything. Not even close. Dent had though. He stared at the man in the bed, half his face covered.

"I'm sorry Harvey." Bruce spoke but it came out in Batman's low rasp. Slowly, he reached out a hand and opened it. The coin clattered onto Dent's bedside table. It landed shiny side up.

Almost unwillingly, Bruce moved to the window. He made no noise apart from the slight rustling of his cape. He stepped onto the windowsill, glanced once more at the disfigured man in the bed and then jumped.

The ground rushed closer and for a moment, Bruce entertained the thought of letting himself hit it. Then he shook himself and spread out his arms. Instantly, his cape stiffened, creating a sort of hang-glider. He landed neatly in an alleyway near to the hospital. Knowing Alfred would worry, he hurried home.

When he arrived, it was nearing dawn. He didn't bother to get out of his costume, just pulled off his mask. He felt empty, but it was a strange kind of emptiness. The kind that screamed. The kind that ached horribly. The kind that faded with time.

Bruce's visit to Dent had taught him two things. The first was that he was not worse off than Dent. Bruce knew that all along, in his heart. He had known he might never be with… he still struggled with her name. Batman was too big a part of him, yet still she was going to wait for him. Dent didn't know. He would never know. It would destroy him. What was left of him anyway; he wouldn't be the same Harvey Dent in the same way Bruce wouldn't be the same Batman.

Tiredly, Bruce sank into the chair by the window and looked out onto the city. Gotham wouldn't be the same either. It couldn't be. Not if the person it looked up to most was changed. Maybe his ideals would be different. His perspective would change. Bruce didn't expect him to resume his old place in the order of things.

The second thing Bruce had learned was that the Joker was more twisted than he thought. Then he shook his head. That was wrong. He just wanted somebody to blame. He should have expected it. It was his own stupidity that led him to Dent, not the Joker's insanity. If only he had paused to think for a second. Then he would have realised, but his worry and desperation to save her had clouded his judgement.

He looked up as Alfred entered the room. He knew that whatever Alfred had to say would help him. Alfred was always there for him. He would know what to do, how he was feeling. He would give good advice to help Bruce to feel better again.

For a brief flash of a second, Bruce saw how much he relied on this man. He saw himself as weak, depending on someone else to do his thinking for him. Depending on his advice to help him get through. Then that was gone and he saw his respect for Alfred and the love they had for each other, much like the love between a father and son, and felt less pathetic.

* * *

Five minutes later, Bruce felt a little better. He almost smiled to himself. He could always count on Alfred to be the voice of reason when he was too blind to see the right path. Slowly he stood up and headed to the Batcave. He got changed from his costume and then hung it up. For a moment he toyed with the idea of ignoring Alfred and never putting it on again, but he reached out and touched it.

"I haven't seen the last of you yet." Bruce said quietly. Then he turned and headed back upstairs, pushing the events of the last night behind him.


End file.
